What a gift to have died so early, I thought.

The child’s body lay on the bed. I reached out to touch her, I had never been this close to someone who had just died. Naturally I was scared, but curious. Her hands still warm, felt as though there was still life left in them. And for a moment, I wondered if her mind was still working, if she could still hear the voices around her. I stood at the back, unsure of my place among the tears and wailing that filled the air. Her mother’s cries cut through the silence, heavy with unbearable pain. I could see it in her face, the doubt, the disbelief. A mother’s instinct to protect, to hold on, now powerless in the face of what was now inevitable.

As others cried, I found myself oddly distant. I could not bring myself to join in, to let the pain of what was happening take hold of me. All I felt was envy. What a gift, I thought. To have died so early. To never have learned to fear death… to just let go. The child had escaped. I envied her more than I had ever envied anything in my life.

If it were not for the fear of what comes after death, who would willingly endure the agony of time? If we could simply face death with the same ease we fall asleep, who would choose to stay, knowing it is all just a slow, painful walk towards that same end? I had one wish…

I remember when I was younger. I wanted to breathe underwater. At night, I would imagine myself swimming far and wide, never needing to come up for air. Back then, I thought drowning was the worst way to die, the water closing over my head, the suffocating feeling of air lost, struggling. Maybe if I could breathe underwater, I would not have to hold my breath all the time. I would swim away from it all, away from the voices telling me I will drown, away from the hands trying to pull me back. I’d be free.

By high school, I had outgrown the idea of being a mermaid. It seemed childish, and my wishes grew more complex, more desperate.

I wished I was smart. No, not just smart, but undeniably smart. The kind of smart everyone sees, the kind that made me feel safe in a classroom. Maybe then I’d not sit in the back, pretending to understand, praying no one would notice how much I struggled. Maybe I’d not be so afraid to raise my hand, terrified that my answer would be wrong, afraid of being judged. Maybe, if I were smart, studying would not hurt so much. Life would not suck like it did. Maybe I would not be so afraid to speak, to stand, to be seen. Maybe, if I were smart, I’d finally feel like I belonged.

But even that wish faded.

Then, I wished for confidence. The kind that makes things easy, makes friends easy, makes love easy, makes life easy. Maybe, if I had confidence, I wouldn’t rehearse my words a thousand times before speaking. I wouldn’t worry about being liked, about being enough. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I had to pretend, to be someone I wasn’t. Maybe, just maybe, if I were confident, I could stop pretending for once.

But that wish didn’t last either.

Eventually, I settled for a different father. He had to be the problem. I wished I had been born into a family that didn’t drown in silence, that didn’t drown in fear. Maybe, things wouldn’t have been so painful. Maybe I wouldn’t have spent my whole life proving I was something, anything, just to be seen. Maybe I wouldn’t be so afraid to leave my job, to start over, to try something different. Maybe I wouldn’t be so good at pretending. Maybe I wouldn’t live a lie anymore.

But my wishes never came true.

“I mostly feel it when it’s quiet. When my thoughts settle… enough for me to notice the silence. Distant at first. Then louder. Then sharp. Then painful.

My breath shortens. I lie there, staring at my phone, convinced that if I close my eyes, I won’t wake up.

The first time it happened, I rushed to the hospital. The doctor… she was calm. Too calm. Tests were done, she listened but looked at me not in the way I feared. ‘If this is what you think it is,’ she said, pulling back, ‘you wouldn’t have made it through the night.’

The second time, the third… the fourth… the answer was always the same.

‘You are fine. Your heart is fine.’

But then she asked, ‘Have you ever thought of seeing a mental health professional?’

A strange relief. A strange disappointment.

I wasn’t dying? So then… what is this?”

Looking at the still, lifeless body of the child, all I could think about was… if I could have one wish, just one, it would be: to not be so afraid of death.

To live without that constant reminder, the voice in my head that never stops, the one that whispers, one day, you won’t exist. It doesn’t matter if I’m happy or sad, succeeding or failing, surrounded by people or alone. It’s always there, it never leaves. Still the world continues, unmoved by my fear. And I can’t help but wonder… what do they know that I don’t? No one else seems haunted by this truth. How do they laugh, love, make plans for years ahead, while I can’t stop thinking about the moment it all ends? The child had escaped. I envied her in a way I couldn’t explain. I wished for her freedom.